by Gina Danna
“Thinkin’ better, Miss. Thank you. Might thirsty, though.”
She gave him a smile and water then darted away. It wasn’t the method she liked to use but who would listen to her? She was only a nurse in their eyes, setting off another furious flame through her. When she jammed the poker into the dying fire and the vibration of hitting the brick fireplace flooring reverberated up her hands, she jolted. Sparks flickered off the prodding, making her step back to miss them. Last thing she needed was her cotton apron to get singed.
“Nurse Lorrance?”
She put the poker down and rubbed her hands against her apron. “Yes, Corporal?”
The soldier, who had been commandeered by Letterman when he discovered the man had been a doctor’s son with a desire to become one himself, stood before her with a worried look on his face. “The laundresses. They’ve done nothing in cleaning the bandages since yesterday’s move here. Word has it the General is planning an attack this morning. We won’t have what we’ll need when the wounded arrive.”
Ada tried to keep her voice quiet but she wanted to laugh. “Corporal Stokes, did you inform them we are in dire need?”
“I did, ma’am, but they just be piddlin’ out there.”
“And you believe this battle will happen?”
“Yes ma’am. Troops be strapping on their trappings and forming lines for a march, that is, if the fog lifts.”
Ada glanced out the window. The cold temperature, after all the rain of late with the end of fall warmth, produced a haze this morning. Outside, she now noticed the fog that held in the distance. Another fight with the Army of Northern Virginia, men used to the climate and grounds here, would definitely mean blood.
“Thank you, Corporal.” She spun and headed out to the building toward the tents out back.
Outside, the air was soupy yet crisp. She determined the fog was worse than earlier and with the damp air, would not help the laundry any. Ahead of her, stood three black women and one white. The three coloreds were runaways and since many slaves ran to the bluecoats when the Union army was near, the army commanders universally chagrined at the incoming mouths to feed but ready help they needed. In this case, the women were put to work at the laundry and the head of that contingent was a sour looking woman who stood at a pot, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face the closer Ada got.
“Nurse Ada, what bestows us the honor of your visit?” The woman spat tobacco juice at the ground, never breaking her gaze on Ada. It was a disgusting habit and so unladylike, Ada wanted to roar, but Mrs. Kirkpatrick would only smile at that. The old Irish woman was set in her ways and answering to a woman nurse wasn’t on that list, Ada discovered.
Drawing up her backbone and straightening her already squared shoulders, Ada did her best to paste a grin on her lips. “Good morning, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Ladies.” She nodded to the coloreds. “I’ve come to inquire on the status of the wash.”
“It’d be gettin’ done.”
Ada raised her brows. Eying the stack of filthy rags behind them, lying on the wet muddy ground, she grinded her teeth to keep from snapping. “Yes, well,” she started, rounding the women to the pile. The top bundle was still blood-splattered and a mangle mess, glued to the one beneath. The fact that they sat on the mud only infuriated her. If she were home, she’d burn the stack and start new. But here, in Virginia, out in the fields, that was not an option.
“Madam, are you aware these will never make it through the day, clean nor not, left in such a disheveled place?”
Kirkpatrick stirred the pot with a long stick and snorted. “You done give me these vagrants, who won’t lift a finger.”
Ada frowned as she turned toward the ex-slaves. “Ladies, as I understand it, you came to the Union line for freedom, am I not right?”
The smallest of the three, and the lighter hued than the other two, raised her chin just a hair but her eyes locked onto Ada’s. “Yes, we did, missy. We’ve come to get free.”
The other two nodded at her triumphant tone.
“What is your name, if you please.” Ada’s gaze swept over them, trying to get a hold on how to approach help that was unwilling to work.
“Lily. And these two are Liza and Bethany.” The girl cocked her head, a defiant look in her eye. Ada couldn’t fathom who she was fighting.
“Yes, well I’m Nurse Ada, and in this camp, no one is simply waiting for food and doing nothing in return…”
“We’ve done worked our whole lives for vermin, only to get little to eat and beaten—or worse—cause we be property, chattel to be so spit on. We hear the Lincolnites are to make us free, so we’re here. Free.” She stood rigid, as if begging to be knocked down so she could fight. Ada mildly thought this woman would be better on the firing lines and quickly quelled that thought.
Ada truly didn’t have time for this. “Lily, Bethany and Liza, glad you are here, yet no one just sits. If these ‘Lincolnites’ don’t win this battle, chances of your freedom dwindle. But you could help us in the cause, as it were. Mrs. Kirkpatrick has a nasty job to try to accomplish on her own. I’m not sure what your chores were under your master, but here, if you don’t know this, Mrs. Kirkpatrick will teach you—”
“You can’t make me do washin’ no more,” the determined girl hissed.
Ada rolled her lower lip in, realizing her arguments to practice medicine no doubt sounded just as strong as this girl’s will to not do a chore again. For her, she compromised and turned to nursing. She had to strike the chord with these three.
“Miss Lily, there are men fighting out there for your freedom and to end the sin of slavery. Even some of your own kind are out on the lines, risking all for freedom. But the fight,” she paused, trying to form the words. “Sometimes, the best way to help these soldiers is to be their support. If they get wounded, they need help as soon as possible. Many of the wounds are terrible.” She blinked and stared at the three. “No doubt similar to the same horrible wounds you witnessed on your owner’s land, though these are done by bullets and cannon fire and the mess is horrendous. We need bandages for them and these need to be cleaned. General Meade is planning an attack today, and we expect casualties, so I need your help.”
None of the three moved or even flinched.
“You may be free, but there is a cost to freedom. Are you willing to justify their loss?”
Lily fumed. Ada heard Mrs. Kirkpatrick spit again—she was going to have to have a word with that woman. After an eternity, though, Liza spoke.
“We be glad we’re free. What would ya have us be doing?”
Ada sighed in relief.
Chapter 7
“They must have anticipated immense slaughter, as no less than a hundred of their ambulances were plainly visible.”
—Confederate cannoneer observing the Federal activities from across the river at Rappahannock Station, VA, November 7, 1863
Rapidan River Valley, Virginia
November 26
Francois squinted, trying to see through the dense fog that shrouded the Rapidan River. Perched on a fallen tree limb, he hugged his jacket tighter without dropping his guard, ready to swing his rifle into action. He was miserable, the cold seeping through his wool uniform, damp from the rains. At least he was off the ground, where the mud caked his brogans and he could swear it fought to ooze through the rough stitching. War was hell…
“You’d think they’d be moving,” Wiggins grumbled.
“They probably are,” Francois replied. “Just can’t see them through this soup.”
“Yes, Corporal, you are correct,” a stern yet gentle voice added. Francois glanced for a second and found General Lee sitting on his horse, just back a bit. “Those people will move. The question I cannot ascertain is where to? This unbroken forest gives them a breaking point to either head to Richmond or move up the Rapidan, upon our right flank, neither of which can we allow to happen.”
“General, the fog has to lift. We will know by then.”
“And that, sir, w
ill be our undoing. No, we must move forward and now.” Lee pulled his reins to the right and rode off, leaving his watchers.
“He’ll have us attack.” Wiggins scratched his stubble chin. “I’d rather do that than just sit like ducks.”
Francois nodded, though his thoughts whirled. War was a strange beast. Perhaps, he should have listened to his brother better, but his prime motivation was to run from that house and the woman he could not have, so rational conversations with the man who’d won her heart was futile, as his own heart broke.
“Seems futile to attack a foe we do not see,” he finally added in a desperate attempt to distract his attention from visions of his love that continually threatened to invade his every thought. Absently, he rubbed the locket-sized portrait in his breast pocket.
Wiggins’s brows furrowed. “Marse Robert says we move, we go.” He paused. “You’re a strange fellow. You fight but the fire only burns in the heat of it. Otherwise, you ain’t here.”
Francois snorted. The Cajun had figured him out. “I’m chased by ghosts, Private Wiggins. Ghosts that I can’t run fast enough from, but,” he leaned forward, giving the man a half smile. “She disappears in the smoke of battle. Then, I am free.”
Wiggins pulled back, a puzzled look, mixed with disgust in his gaze. “You be lookin’ to die on these grounds? That’ll cost more than you, I reckon.”
“No, no,” he argued. “I don’t wish to die but I will not turn down the reaper if he appears. I will not go down without a fight.” He prayed that dispelled the cast he had just set over his fellow soldier.
Wiggins gave him a half grin and the twinkle sparked his eyes. “Good. Let’s go kill us some Yankees!”
Francois followed him as the drums rolled, calling them to formation. He’d wipe the thought that his brother was one of the Yankee-type and was thankful he wasn’t here. Whatever the hold ‘Marse’ Robert, or General Lee, had over these men now pulled Francois in. One thing was for sure. Lee had beaten and pushed off the Northern invaders time and time again. Despite the fog, the muddy ground and chill that wanted to stab him, fire ignited and he hoped, it’d burn the hole in his heart, making him forget her.
The day turned into chaos. Ada had found herself with the misfortune of witnessing this before and every time, her heart sunk as the wounded poured in. Scores of soldiers with ghastly rips in their flesh, buried bullets that brought dirt, material and skin with it. Men moaned and cried, some shrieking from the pain. Yet the doctors and nurses with any experience, worked the best they could with the limited time and supplies they had. That had always irked her. The Federal army had the means to supply them well yet their medicines and supplies bulked up an advancing force, too much so to make it practical to take them yet they were sorely needed when the two sides clashed. So they worked in a climate not to their choosing nor liking, often with poor lights, inefficient supply of water, not enough fires to clean what they had and instruments that never seemed to be enough for the call needed.
“Nurse, nurse!”
Ada spun, trying to find its source, but it was repeated and by many. The closest to her was the hospital steward, across the former dining room, trying to restrain a patient who struggled to get off the bedding.
“You ain’t gonna touch me, damn Yankee!” The rebel sputtered those words. She’d not guess his side since they’d managed to have him somewhat covered and his jacket was missing, along with half his shirt, she noted.
“Nurse Ada,” the steward started. “If you’d give a hand, please.”
She raced to the patient’s other side and took his shoulders with her bare hands. The soldier flinched as she pressed him down and despite her cooing to calm his nerves, when his shoulders hit the mattress, he roared in pain. She looked at him a bit more carefully and discovered her own hand, on the one side, was covered in red blood.
“His wound is cleared of lead,” the steward reported. “Clean shot, straight through.” He glanced at the patient. “Sir, you’ll do in a couple of days.”
Her patient, though, was passed out by the time the steward finished bandaging the wound and moved on. Gently, she laid the sheet over his wound.
“He’ll need it sweet watered.”
She glanced around to find Will rubbing his hands. They were blood stained, just as she found hers. Wiping her palms on her apron, she nodded. “I’ll have Maybelle attend to that.”
Will frowned. “She may not be the best suited for that kind.”
“What? The wounded, or the fact he is a rebel?” To her, a patient was a patient.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I do not.” She stood, facing him, fully aware the men around them needed care, not to be neglected by them. “These men in here are wounded. Sides do not matter.”
“Ada, please. We must attend our own first.”
She tightened her jawline. “Dr. Leonard, medicine knows of only one side, and that is those needing help.”
“And orders stand—” he started when a crash rang through the air.
Without another word, she followed Will as he bolted to the back room from whence the noise came. She wasn’t ready for what she found. In the center of the room, Maybelle stood, her one arm clutching around her middle, the hand of the other over her mouth as tears streamed down her face. Around her feet stood a puddle of spilled, dirty water, a wet rag and the broken bottle of some liquid, its brown concoction swirling down the waxed wooden floor.
“Good, Nurse Lorrance, glad you arrived,” muttered Surgeon Waxler. “One of your staff has loss her wits. Please replace her at once.”
Ada took Maybelle’s bent arm, tugging her to follow her. Poor Maybelle was pale and she could feel the girl tremble.
“Maybelle, surgery is the last place for you to be,” she said softly. “I left you to see to the lads in the front, those with the least wounds.”
“I did as you said,” the girl replied, sniffling. “But Dr. Waxler required aid and no one was available, so he took me.” She shuddered. “I want to help, but I wasn’t ready…” she whimpered.
Ada guided her out of the building to the front porch. Wounded were on the floorboards, most had tourniquets on, or their hands resting on packed bandages over wounds the surgeons had yet to see. Out here, the surgeons regulated the minor injuries, the type that could wait while they tackled the harder cases first. Still, she noted, many were pale and their moans were building as their pains increased.
She took Maybelle back to the bucket off the side, where a lonely chair sat, and another bowl with dry rags nearby. “Rest. We will need you, but this time, stay out here or head to the laundresses and see how they fare on those bandages. I fear we will need the rest shortly.”
Maybelle nodded as she took a drink of water. Ada noticed her color was returning to her cheeks. Why Waxler would take this nurse, a young woman with no medical knowledge outside the basic, just confused Ada, but then again, Waxler despised women nurses. He’d thrown up argument after argument for Ada and her kind to leave but Letterman held his ground. They needed help, after all.
With her mindset and a reprimand for Waxler forming on her lips, Ada stormed back into the hospital only to run into chaos unfolding. The patients appeared to have multiplied while she had stepped out and the escalade of moans, with a painful yip periodically, grew. She could barely move through the remains of the front parlor thanks to the influx of men. The setting sun outside, or the faint remains of it, darkened the hell just that much further. Fearing she’d step on some of the wounded, now many lying on the floorboards since all the beds and settees were occupied. Some of the men tried to catch her attention, pulling at her sodden skirts and she found her resolution to make it across, to the supply table, was being tested.
“Miss, miss, please,” one man pleaded, his pitch high enough it did stop her.
She made the mistake of looking down. What she found made her heart weep. A young soldier, his sandy-colored hair matted with blood and caked with mud, had a gap
ping gash on the side of his face framed by black soot from black powder. One hand had a tight grip on her skirt hem but the other had was missing half its fingers from the looks of the blood-soaked wrappings, and his clothing, half ripped open as many soldiers did when hit, searching for the wound, exposed an oozing hole on his side. Swallowing the bile that crept up her throat, she bent and unwrapped his fingers from her skirts.
“Soldier?”
“Private Matthews, ma’am,” he replied, his lips curling in a smile. The shock of pain in his eyes beat on her soul. “Am I gonna die?”
“Yes,” she wanted to tell him. The stomach wound deemed his death. How he’d made it inside versus being left out near a tree, one they always found to rest these poor souls under, she’d never know. To her, he’d risked his life in the debacle, he deserved the truth. But his youth and the need in his voice made her shake her head. “You hold on, Private Matthews. Help will be here in just a few.”
He closed his eyes and nodded.
Feeling her heart clench, she tore away, upset and angry that all the lives here meant little, just to gain a goal against the enemy. Her hands fisted at her side as she fought the anger. More needed help, not her opinion. She headed back to the supply room, a break sorely needed, when she ran right into Will. Surprised, she stepped back.
“Apologies, I did not see you.”
He gave her an odd stare, as if he hadn’t seen her at all. A curl of his dark hair fell across his forehead and she saw the lines that formed from concentrating too hard, a distant look in his eyes.
“Will, are you all right?” She didn’t like his appearance, as if he wasn’t here mentally, but all the blood on his white surgeon’s coat and the stain of it on his hands told her he definitely was. When he didn’t answer, she pushed again, “Dr. Leonard?”
He shook his head, as if to shake off a moment and gave her a terse grin. “Ada, this is too much. I am exhausted and just at wits end.”
